


Keep My Memory Green

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, based on Charles Dickens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 02:55:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock learned the importance of memories of sorrow only when they were gone. Based on "The Haunted Man and The Ghost's Bargain" by Charles Dickens. Post-Reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John was worried about Sherlock. That was nothing new; ever since he met him, he'd always worried about the consulting detective. Because he ate and slept too little; because he ran into dangerous situations without thinking twice about it; because he worked with chemicals in their kitchen without a care in the world. The only time John hadn't worried about Sherlock, for three long years, was because he had thought him dead, and he definitely preferred being worried.

But this – this was a different kind of worry, simply because he'd never seen his best friend like this.

Of course he'd realized Sherlock had changed as soon as the detective returned, and John had been able to look him in the eyes again without wanting to punch him. Admittedly, it hadn't taken long – maybe he'd forgiven him too quickly. But he hadn't been able to hold a grudge, not even because Sherlock played dead for three years. Even before his friend had explained everything – that he'd jumped to save him, Greg and Mrs. Hudson, that he'd spent the three years hunting down Moriarty's web so no harm could befall them – he'd realized he wouldn't be angry for long.

He had lived a half-life for three years, limping occasionally, the adventures with Sherlock all but a half-forgotten dream. He had reached some sort of equilibrium, come to terms with what had happened, but that didn't mean that he didn't wonder what his life would have been like if Sherlock hadn't killed himself. And then his one wish was granted, and his best friend returned, and once again, he found he couldn't help but be drawn into the whirlwind that was a life as Sherlock's flatmate and best friend.

But Sherlock had changed.

John had changed too, he had no illusions about that; three years of grieving and leading an utterly normal, dull, ultimately unfulfilling life would change a man. Yet –

Maybe he was a little more patient with Sherlock's antics now, and maybe he would be content to live the rest of his life without a wife and children, but with a crazy best friend.

But Sherlock had changed in a way that worried John, and continued to worry him more and more as time went on.

He hadn't told the doctor much of what he'd done in these three years, which he referred to as his "posthumous existence", except that he'd brought down Moriarty's web, hunted down each and every one of his associates. Other than that... he could tell that Sherlock had suffered (when he'd decided to tell John that he was alive, he'd been even paler and thinner than the day he – disappeared), and that his friend was happy to be back home... but...

Something was missing.

And it took John no more than a crime scene to realize it.

Sherlock's usual bravado was missing.

There was no spark in his eye when he told Greg – who looked just as concerned as John – what had happened, there was no vigour when he insulted Donavan and Anderson – and the doctor had to admit that Donavan, at least, seemed to be worried as well.

He wasn't Sherlock, plain and simple.

Of course, John had been aware that he wasn't the "high-functioning sociopath" he declared himself to be; but he'd always enjoyed his work, enjoyed the puzzle, and now that he'd returned to the land of the living, that enjoyment was gone.

John had assumed that Sherlock would stop acting like this, once he'd got used to being home. That he'd be his normal arrogant self again.

He'd been wrong. And he spent weeks trying to find out what was wrong, until he realized what the "something" that held Sherlock back was.

Something...

The consulting detective was haunted by his memories, John could tell as much, because he knew what it meant. But Sherlock wasn't missing the fight against Moriarty' web – he was trying to forget it, and no one could help him with that.

Still, John had to try.

"Greg, I'm worried". He said it matter-of-factly, having been sent to the DI's office once again to retrieve a file on an old case.

Greg simply sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "I would ask "about what" but considering I am worried too..." He looked at John. "Do you – did he – " He hesitated, but it wasn't difficult to guess what he was about to ask.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "You know he doesn't talk about things like that."

"He used to. Now and then. He'd complain."

"You call that "now and then"?" They smiled at each other briefly.

Then Greg sighed again and seemed to think of something. "Do you remember the crime scene last week? Where the husband thought he'd killed the man his wife actually wanted to marry years ago, but he'd only horribly disfigured him, and when the truth came out, he died from a stroke?"

"Yes" John answered, shuddering. Sherlock had walked slowly into the house, seen everything within minutes, told Greg what had happened – just _told_ him, without one swoop of his coat, without one happy grin over the body – and left, John following him.

"Donavan came to me afterwards. She asked "Sir, what's going on with the freak?" Apparently she was concerned because he hadn't insulted Anderson..." Greg raised an eyebrow. "You don't seem surprised."

John shook his head. "I would have been if Mycroft hadn't come around for tea yesterday, when Sherlock was on one of his strolls".

Sherlock had been disappearing more and more often after he'd returned, claiming that he wanted to "reacquaint himself with the city", even though John suspected that the consulting detective simply tried to run away. From company, from memories, from he didn't know what, but it must be something that scared the man that had looked a psychopath in the eyes and faked his death so his friends would be safe. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

Greg looked at John in astonishment. "What do you mean with he came over for tea? He didn't try to give Sherlock advice or a case or something?"

"No. He's worried. He wanted to know if I was aware what's going on".

It had been strange, to say the least, to see Mycroft Holmes looking concerned, all but begging John to tell him something, anything about his brother. John had answered that Mycroft, of all people, should know what Sherlock had gone through, after all he'd known for two of the three years that his brother was alive, but the elder Holmes had shook his head. Apparently Sherlock had only told him which information was needed, and he'd sent it to him.

Mycroft was as clueless as the rest of them. And after John had told him that, their DI looked as scared as he felt.

He wanted to say something, but his phone rang. He shot John a look.

"Tonight at our usual pub around seven? We need to talk, and frankly, I think we'll need drinks for it".

John nodded, smiled and left, not feeling less worried, but a little bit less anxious.

When he arrived at the flat, once again decorated because Mrs. Hudson had decided it should be, now that she had her boys back, Sherlock was sitting in his chair in his dressing-gown, holding his hands in his thinking pose and obviously lost in his mind palace.

John walked in the kitchen to make tea, and bit his lip. What was the word he'd thought of when describing Sherlock?

 _Haunted_.

Sherlock Holmes was a haunted man and everyone could see it. The way he walked, the way he talked, the defeated look in his eyes...

They would have to do something, but John didn't know what.

He drank a cup of tea – Sherlock had politely declined, which made him worry all the more – and then left for the pub. He wasn't sure if Sherlock even heard when he explained the reason.

But Sherlock heard him leave, and shuddered. He was alone, and it was two weeks before Christmas, which meant that it was already dark outside.

He knew it would come. It always came when he was alone in the flat or his room after dark. Which was one of the reasons he preferred to roam the city at night. Even though he knew it was hopeless. He would never get rid of it. It would always be there, waiting for him when he came back.

He raised his eyes and there it sat, on John's chair. Looking exactly like Sherlock, only – colourless. And transparent. It had even adopted his thinking pose. Sherlock knew it wouldn't go away; there was no point in leaving the room. It would only accompany him to his bedroom.

So he decided to speak. "I wonder why you even bother disappearing whenever John enters the flat or the room I happen to be in. I see you in the fire, I feel you in the wind, I hear you in the tones of my violin."

"I come when called" the phantom answered in Sherlock's voice.

Sherlock spat "I certainly didn't call you" and looked away, but the image was already talking again.

"Look at me. Am I not he, grown up in an empty house, ignored by his parents, with only an older brother for company? A brother I'm not even on proper speaking terms with anymore? Am I not he, who took drugs and almost died in his twenties? Am I not he, who spent three years dead, torturing and killing, alone, always so alone?"

"You don't have to remind me" Sherlock answered, jumping up and starting to walk up and down. "I am perfectly aware of my life's story, thank you very much. And I know all about those three years... Isn't it enough that I think about them every day? Isn't it enough that I have to keep what I did from my friends, because I know they would be devastated if they were to know what I have done?"

The ghost said nothing, just looked at him with the same piercing stare Sherlock used on suspects.

"You don't have to remind me" Sherlock repeated and swallowed. "I wish you had, though. If I could forget all of this, the sorrow, the wrong, the trouble I have known, I would do so, gladly."

"Forget the sorrow, the wrong, the trouble..." the ghost mumbled. Then he stood up. "What if you could?"

Sherlock stared at him.

"This is my offer. Forget it, and not just the three years that haunt you. No, forget every sorrow you have ever known."

"What else would I forget – if I believed you could do this?" Sherlock inquired.

The ghost smiled. "Nothing. Your knowledge and skills would be untouched."

Sherlock paced up and down. To forget it all, and yet forget nothing of importance – he could be happy again. He could have fun solving crimes again. He could be the friend John needed again.

He took a deep breath. "I'll do it".

"Then it's done" answered the spectre. "And, because now you are free, receive this gift from me: You shall carry it with you and give it to everyone you encounter. Destroy the remembrance in all you approach!"

Even while he was saying this, he disappeared, and Sherlock sat down shakily on the sofa, running his hands through his hair, the change already upon him.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock shook his head, mumbling half-sentences and incoherent words to himself without realizing it. Suddenly, he felt lost and didn't know why; he had got what he'd wanted, what he wished. There was no memory of sorrow or wrong in his head – he couldn't recall ever having felt unhappy. But he felt unlike himself; a stranger in his own skin.

He stood up. Of course it felt strange at first, this – change. But he wasn't suffering anymore.

Though he wasn't aware of it – after having forgotten everything, he didn't miss it – he didn't remember what he had done in the three years he spent "dead", he didn't remember growing up without a friend (but with a brother), he didn't remember his cocaine addiction. He didn't notice that, all of a sudden, huge parts of his life were missing, and if he had, he wouldn't have cared.

He remembered the gift of the ghost; he remembered that he had suffered before; he was aware that he'd never suffer again, because he would take care not to. That was quite enough, as far as he was concerned.

He thought about what the ghost had said. "And, because now you are free, receive this gift from me: You shall carry it with you and give it to everyone you encounter. Destroy the remembrance in all you approach!"

That meant that whoever he met would forget past sorrows too. He would be a benefactor of mankind, so to speak; nobody he saw, or maybe even just happened to pass by, would be able to recall any sorrow. No hurt. No pain. He bit his lip and wondered why this didn't cause him as much joy as he supposed it should have. After all, hadn't he suffered?

This thought led to nowhere, because he once again felt like a stranger in his own skin when he realized that he could remember the gift, and therefore must have suffered in the past, but couldn't be sure. He hated not being sure.

He shook his head. This was going nowhere, and he might as well go out for a walk to clear his head. And help a few people on the way, while he was at it.

He dressed and made his way out of the flat.

Mrs. Hudson opened her door when she heard him come down. "Sherlock! Going out?" she asked with a frown. She was worried – ever since Sherlock had returned, he hadn't spent as much time with John as before his... disappearance, he was eating less and less – John had told her about it – and the spark in his eyes was missing. "Do you want to eat something first? I could fix you something".

Sherlock looked at her in a way he'd never done before, and she didn't know what it meant.

In fact, Sherlock had the feeling that something, something...

Her insistence that he should eat... Hadn't there been – when they met –

But it wasn't there, so he shook his head and decided not to be bothered by it. "No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson..." he trailed off as he saw her look grow strangely unfocused, and she passed a hand over her forehead. Of course. Somehow, he hadn't thought that the spell would work on Mrs. Hudson too, how stupid of him. The change was happening.

He didn't expect what happened next. She shot him a disapproving glare, and, other than the times when she'd done so because he wouldn't eat or had shot the walls or – or – something to do with John, it really was disapproving. "Naturally" she muttered. "Lives practically for free, destroys my walls every month and treats me like a piece of furniture. Of with you then." And she walked back into her flat and slammed the door.

Sherlock stood there for a few moments, blinking slowly. He didn't understand what had just happened. Mrs. Hudson was fond of him, he was fond of her, he'd just made her forget she had ever suffered – there was something with her husband, though he can't put his finger on it – and now she'd slammed the door in his face.

In the end, he shrugged and decided to take his walk.

John and Greg sat at their usual table in the pub, pints in front of them. John took a sip of his and sighed.

"I tried to talk to him, but he insists that he's fine".

"Does that really surprise you? When I first met him he was a drug addict who wouldn't even admit that his addiction might be a problem."

"He's past that. We're friends. He knows he could talk to me, or you, or Mrs. Hudson" Greg's eyebrows rose, and John added, "She's tougher than you think. Who do you think insisted on the Christmas decorations in our flat?"

"I had wondered about that" Greg chuckled. "Though I thought you liked it."

John grinned. "I do, and Sherlock – " his face fell, and he looked at the table. "The Christmas before he – he disappeared, he wouldn't have gone to the party if Mrs. Hudson hadn't talked him into it, and he fought her for days until she simply put up the decoration when we weren't in the flat and informed him that he wasn't allowed to touch anything. Now, he just accepted it."

"Maybe he likes it too, now. Three years – people change."

"Don't you think I know that?" John responded, irritated, before he rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Greg. I – I haven't got much sleep lately."

"Sherlock keeping you up by shooting the wall and playing his violin?" Greg smiled fondly.

John bit his lip. "No, I – Greg, since he returned, he hasn't woken me up once. It's so utterly quiet, and I can't bear it. It's as if he hasn't really come back, in the night..."

Now Greg was more than worried. This might be more serious than he'd realized. Sherlock not being his usual self at crime scenes was one thing, but him not playing his violin or destroying Mrs. Hudson's property... the thought of his consulting detective being quiet sent a shiver down his spine.

"Does – " and he had to clear his throat. "Does he still do experiments?"

John smiled sadly and answered "Yes", and Greg sighed relieved, but his smile vanished in an instant when John added, "but he tells me before he does them".

Greg shook his head in disbelief. "So... It's been what, three months, since he returned?"

"Yes" John confirmed, although they both could have named the exact moment the consulting detective re-entered their lives.

"And it doesn't look like he's going to snap out of... this anytime soon."

"No. It doesn't seem like it, no."

They were silent for a moment, pondering what to do. Therapy wasn't an option; aside from the fact that John knew from experience that it couldn't help in some cases, neither of them could imagine Sherlock talking to a complete stranger. There was only one possible solution.

They said, almost at the same time, "We must force him to talk." They smiled at each other. Greg chuckled. "Something like an intervention... Why not?"

John nodded. "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will help us."

Greg grabbed his coat. "Let's go".

When he saw John's surprised look he added, "I can't stand it much longer. I can't stand to see him suffer. I'll go with you, we'll do it right now."

"He might be out" John said as they were leaving the pub. Greg knew about Sherlock's expeditions – the consulting detective didn't answer his phone when he was strolling around London, something that would never have happened before his "death". But their DI appeared unconcerned.

"Then I'll stay, as long as it takes for him to return. If it takes until tomorrow, I'll spend the night on your couch".

John looked at him. "Thanks, Greg".

"No problem – three years without our Sherlock were quite long enough."

John let them in – the pub was only a short walk from 221B – and knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door. He would ask their house – landlady if she wanted to talk to Sherlock too, or if she'd be content to hear about it later. His money, knowing Mrs. Hudson, was on the former.

He wasn't the least prepared for the force with which she opened her door, or by the hostile look she gave him. "What do you want?" she asked, though obviously not because she was interested. In fact, she seemed to want to get the conversation over with as quickly as possible. It was the first time since John had met her that she hadn't greeted him and asked how he was doing.

He frowned, immediately concerned. "Mrs. Hudson, are you alright?"

"Of course I am alright, why shouldn't I be?" she snapped, irritated. "I would be even better if tenants who didn't pay way too little for a wonderful flat wouldn't bother me in the evening."

John was speechless. What had got into her? Luckily, Greg decided to help him out and stepped out of the shadows in the hallway and into the light that shone out of their landlady's flat.

"Good evening, Mrs. Hudson. We want to talk to Sherlock – "

"So what?" she asked. "I'm not stopping you. And just for the record, if you come by any more often, I'm going to have you pay a portion of the rent too." With that, she closed the door, and John and Greg were left in the hallway, gaping at where the elderly woman had stood just moments ago.

Greg laid a hand on John's arm. "Maybe she is tired, John, or had a quarrel with her sister... I'm sure she'll be alright. Let's concentrate on the bigger problem for now."

John nodded and bit his lip, and they went up to the flat, where they found that Sherlock had indeed gone out. They settled down to wait for him, Greg sitting down on the sofa while John went into the kitchen to make tea.

Sherlock was strolling around London, lost in thought. He didn't understand Mrs. Hudson's reaction. Shouldn't she be happy?

Someone ran into him, and startled out of his head, he found it was a young mother with two small children. The eyes of the children glowed, most likely because they were obviously looking at shop windows with Christmas decorations until the father returned form work. Dull.

"Oh, sorry" she said and smiled, but then she passed a hand over her forehead and Sherlock, for reasons he couldn't understand, felt strange again.

"Mummy?" one of the children, a little girl, asked. "Why are we standing? Didn't you say we'd go looking at a few shop windows until daddy came home?"

"Fine daddy he is, working day and night – we never get to see him anyway. Really, I don't know what got into me when I said yes... Come on, I'm cold!"

"But Mummy, what about – " the girl started to ask, a few tears in her eyes, because her mother was dragging her and her little brother rather forcefully past Sherlock and down the street. But the woman interrupted her. "Silent, and quicker. I'm not going to freeze because you can't walk as fast as you should".

Sherlock looked after them, trying to catch a thought. This cold, indifferent tone of voice reminded him of his m –

The feeling and thought passed, he shrugged his shoulders and walked on.


	3. Chapter 3

While John was making the tea, he couldn't help but think about Mrs. Hudson. She'd never acted like this, not even in her most angry moments – and John would freely admit that he hadn't thought her capable of screaming until Sherlock returned and she (according to his friend) shouted at him for half an hour before fixing him a meal.

But this hostility... Not only towards him, but towards Greg as well, and Mrs. Hudson had always been quite fond of the DI. Actually, she had told John once that she'd been very happy when Sherlock mentioned Greg for the first time, because it meant that "her boy had found a friend".  
What had happened? The thought that Sherlock could have said or done something that made her resent him and John was utterly ridiculous. She loved them like a mother – like the wonderful mother Sherlock had never had (at least John was rather sure about that, looking at Sherlock and Mycroft), like the wonderful mother John had lost. So why –

He sighed and leaned against the kitchen table, which was almost free – only Sherlock's microscope, no dangerous chemicals, and it was like a stab through his heart. The only time the table had been this clean was when –

What was going on? What was the matter with Sherlock? What was haunting him? Of course, John knew that he would have had to do many things in the past three years he couldn't be proud of – but if they haunted him, made his life a living hell, why didn't he talk about it them? They were friends; they trusted each other; they should be able to –

Suddenly somebody squeezed his shoulder and John jumped. Greg looked at him. "John, you are almost as good at getting lost in your head as Sherlock, by now".

John smiled a half-smile and turned to the kettle. "What is worrying you John?" Greg asked quietly.

John looked at him and frowned. "You know what..."

"That's not what I meant."

John poured the tea and then, just when Greg thought he wouldn't get an answer, he replied slowly, "I can't live without him anymore. Not again. And he's slipping away."

Greg nodded. Then he took the offered cup before squeezing John's shoulder. "Don't worry. He – he jumped so would be safe, right? And he did whatever he did so he could return. He's not going to leave, no matter what happens."

"Thanks Greg". They went back to the living room and sipped their tea in silence when Greg's phone started to ring. He started to apologize while he was looking for it, but John waved his words away. There was no need. If Greg got a case, he'd understand. And Sherlock definitely wasn't leaving – Mycroft had probably invented a surveillance Grade 4 for him, just to be sure – so one more day wouldn't make a difference, John hoped.

"It's Molly" Greg said, blushing a little, and John hid a smile. Their DI and the pathologist had been on a few dates by now, and it seemed to be going fine – except for the fact that Sherlock hadn't said a word about it. And John knew that thinking like this wasn't healthy – but, then again, most people would probably tell him that his mental health had already been compromised when he decided to move in with Sherlock.

"Hello, Molly? What, you are still – Oh, that's a nuisance – you see, I..." he trailed off, the added "Give me a minute, please". He lowered the phone and shot John a guilty look. "Molly has a flat tire and she thought calling me would be quicker than – "

John chuckled. "Go, Greg. We can talk to Sherlock tomorrow morning, when we're rested. Now go and be her knight in shining armour"

Greg smiled and put the phone back to his ear. "Molly? I'm coming. I'll be there in twenty minutes at the most. Do you have a spare tire? Yes? Great. Till then" he hung up and made his way to the door, putting on his coat. "Thanks again, John. I'll be here at – let's say nine o' clock. Sherlock should be in then, right?"

"Yes, he should. Till tomorrow, Greg".

Then the DI was gone, and John, while glad that Greg seemed to be on his road to happiness, was left to fret about Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson's behaviour.

Sherlock was still walking around London, trying to figure out what had happened to Mrs. Hudson and the young mother. He had assumed, naturally, that people who forgot all sorrow and wrong would be cheerful, not angry, and certainly not so... resentful to other people they normally had a strong affection for.

But, come to think of it, he wasn't particularly cheerful either. He felt strange, but that was about it. Other than that...

Why would Mrs. Hudson slam the door in his face? Ever since they met –

They met –

He lost the trail of thought without realizing it and focused on the young mother. His abilities for deduction, as the ghost had promised, where unimpaired. He could clearly remember that she had seemed... happy before she'd bumped into him, and angry and impatient right after. Shouldn't she be even happier to be with her children, waiting for her husband, if she couldn't remember ever having been sad?

He suddenly realized that he stood outside of St Bart's and looked up to the roof without really knowing why. He frowned. The roof... the place he stood now... looking up –

From the corner of his eye, he could see Greg walking towards the hospital, but, for a reason he couldn't put his finger on, he stayed in the shadows and let his friend walk past.

Though he suddenly realized that there was only a faint echo of the gratitude and affection he felt usually for the man in his breast when he watched him walk into the building. Even when he stopped and shook his head for a moment, Sherlock only felt marginally concerned. As if they were just acquaintances, not friends.

Why were they friends to begin with? And why should he feel grateful to the DI? He didn't know, and the thought once again past away without leaving a trace. He shrugged his shoulders. Maybe it was time to return home – but, of course, John.

John must have suffered in his life, though Sherlock was rather sure the doctor had never told him about it. There was – before they'd met, surely – the doctor had had –

But he and John were best friends, he thought, he'd helped him with his cases, until – something, so why not give him the opportunity to forget all about his sorrows?

The decision made, he turned around and started to make his way back to Baker Street.

Greg found Molly in the garage, by her car, her face breaking into a big smile when she saw him.

"Greg! I hope I didn't keep you from anything important?"

"What? Oh, no, I – I was just..." Greg stopped, feeling confused. He had been somewhere, surely? Something to do with – wait, he had wanted to help – he had the feeling that he'd known it, just a moment before, but then, he'd felt dizzy when he walked up to the building, and –

He looked at Molly, whose eyes were worried.

_Worry. John. Sherlock. Of course._

He shook his head. "Sorry, Molly – I was confused there for a moment. Maybe I work too much. I was at John's and Sherlock's flat – we wanted to talk to him, but he wasn't there."

Molly took his hand and squeezed it. "So he is still – different, then?" she asked quietly. Greg nodded.

She sighed, but didn't let go of his hand. "He doesn't even flirt to get access to body parts anymore, and when I ask him if he needs anything, he declines. He actually declines. And he doesn't grin when he looks at bodies..." She seemed to realize what she'd just said. "I didn't mean..."

"I know, Molly, trust me, I know. I'm worried because he doesn't insult Anderson or Donavan anymore – and Donavan is as well."

Molly smiled for a moment, then asked, "But he wasn't there?"

"No. John informs me he spends whole night running through the town, thinking about God knows what."

Molly nodded and squeezed his hand again. "Will you try again?"

"Tomorrow."

She took a deep breath and there was a certain spark in her eyes as she asked, "Can you fix my tire?"

"Of course" he answered, not knowing why she was grinning from ear to ear, but enjoying the fact that she still held his hand.

"Great. So, how about you do that, and afterwards I make you a late dinner as a thank you – in my flat?"

Greg swallowed, realized what she'd said and started to grin too. "I better get to work, then".

She let finally go of his hand, stepped aside, and, while he was working on her car, he decided that he'd be over at 221B at half-past eight tomorrow, just to thank John for letting him come to Molly's help tonight.

It was just past eleven when Sherlock returned, and thankfully, Mrs. Hudson's windows were already dark – though this was unusual, because she had made a habit, in the last few weeks, to stay up rather late, to enjoy the candles and Christmas decorations.

Should he be –

He forgot all about it and walked up. He had no doubt that John would wait for him, though he didn't know why.

John was, by this point, pacing up and down. Yes, he would wait until tomorrow morning, when he had Greg's help and Mrs. Hudson might be herself again, but he wanted to know that Sherlock was in their flat, safe and well.

He sighed with relief when he heard the key in the lock, and decided to sit down and pretend to have read a book the whole time, knowing but not caring that Sherlock would see through it in a second.

Sherlock stepped through the door and saw John sitting in his chair, pretending to read a book. He frowned; the strangeness was upon him again, and he had the feeling that he should leave. It was ridiculous, of course. There was no reason to leave, especially since he'd come so John would be free from sorrow.

He swallowed and took of his coat and scarf.

John jumped up and let the book fall on the floor – he must really have been – something or other – he never let his books fall down carelessly –

"Sherlock! Where have you been?" John asked, eagerly.

"Just reacquainting myself with the city" Sherlock answered, looking at him intently. A few moments later, he saw the change taking place.

John jumped up as soon as he heard Sherlock take off his scarf. He was home, thank God. Even if it didn't change anything, he wanted to know where his friend had been.

There was something – different in the consulting detective's face, but John couldn't put his finger on it. True, he'd wanted things to change, but this wasn't the Sherlock he remembered, and it wasn't the Sherlock he'd lived with since he'd returned, so what –

He felt strangely dizzy, all of a sudden, and put his right hand to his forehead.

Sherlock wondered idly, when he saw the tell-tale sign that the change was upon his flatmate, why he didn't feel any satisfaction.

When John looked up, there was an annoyed expression on his face. "Do you really have to go out and come home at all hours? Isn't it bad enough that you keep experiments in the fridge, take my gun and drag me out to crime scenes?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, confused. As far as he could remember, John had always enjoyed his work.

"You heard me perfectly."

"Then why are you still up, waiting for me?" Sherlock was sure about that, at least.

"Because, I – " there was a faraway look in John's eyes, all of a sudden, and Sherlock had the feeling that he should feel something else than confusion and mild annoyance, but didn't know what, and didn't think about it for long. John gave up and simply turned around.

"Forget it. I'm going to bed. And, you know what, maybe you being gone at all hours isn't such a bad idea after all."

John went upstairs to his room and closed the door. He sat down on the bed and shook his head. Why was he living with Sherlock again? The man couldn't keep the flat clean, he was strange, he had no regards for personal space...

Wasn't there a reason? Wasn't there something? Something about – John had done before he met – he'd been – and then – The thought was gone before he'd time to process it, and he simply started unbuttoning his shirt.

Maybe, John reflected as he was getting ready for bed, it was time to get a flat of his own. He could work as a doctor again, after all, and be free from people who stared at corpses for a living and little old ladies who tried to stuff you with biscuits and tea whenever they saw you.

If he flinched and was confused as his hands touched the scar on his shoulder as he was pulling off the shirt, he didn't remember it a minute later.

Sherlock still stared at the place John had stood, then decided to go out again, because, frankly, he didn't really want to stay where this annoying individual was right now. Maybe playing his violin and making him angry would be fun, but it wasn't worth the trouble.

He made sure to slam the door on his way out, though.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock all but ran out into the night, utterly confused. John had never talked like that to him; apparently he didn't care much for his company anymore – but he had, once, hadn't he?

Would he move out? He couldn't; he wouldn't; he –

Something, why he wouldn't move out, but it passed again –

He knew it was important John didn't move out, but he couldn't – then it struck him.

He couldn't _remember_ why he didn't want John to move out.

He couldn't even remember properly how they met. He could remember their first case, but only after they'd come back from Angelo's, and he didn't remember why the memories had meant so much to him before he'd received the gift.

And then the thought came to him: _Was it a gift or a curse?_ He didn't feel cheerful, or happy. He felt strange and empty, devoid of –

Devoid of what made people human.

And apparently he was doing the same to all people who came in closer contact with him. Suddenly he was rather glad that he'd stayed in the shadows when Greg walked past.

But wasn't it a blessing, too? Not to remember that he'd ever suffered, not to recall pain or sorrow? He supposed it was, and he'd made the deal, so there was no use in thinking about it.

Still, he wouldn't go home. He'd spent nights walking before, it wouldn't do him any harm. He didn't want to go back to where John was, and that thought caused him a slight bit still noticeable unease he didn't understand. He stood up and started walking.

By the time John woke up, still feeling annoyed and angry, he'd made the decision to move out. There was an annoying old lady downstairs; there was a sociopath living in the flat who couldn't even keep the bloody kitchen clean; there was a DI coming and going at all times; in short, there was nothing holding him here; although – although –

Some remembrance, some faint echo –

He shook his head, took a shower and dressed himself, before deciding with a satisfied smile to tell Mrs. Hudson before breakfast that he would be moving out at the beginning of January. If he hadn't found a new flat by then, he'd go into a hotel, there was enough on his bank account (thanks to the annoying brother of the sociopath, another reason why he definitely needed to move out). He should have done this years ago. Why hadn't he –

 _Years ago_... Something in him tried to tell him that this was wrong, that he'd forgotten something important, the most important thing of his life, in fact, but he didn't listen. He couldn't listen. So he simply went down and knocked on the old lady's door, greeting her with a look of annoyance and boredom that was mirrored on her face.

Greg woke up around seven am on Molly's couch, feeling well rested and rather happy. She'd prepared a good dinner, and they'd talked until two o' clock. Remembering his promise to John, he decided to leave a note and get a cab to his place, so he could take a shower and put on a different suit.

But just as he was searching for a piece of paper he heard her voice.

"Leaving already?" It sounded teasing, and he turned around with a smile.

"I promised John I'd be at Baker Street at nine, and I want to go to my place and get dressed first."

She nodded, smiling back. "Good. I hope you get through to him. We need him back. It's not the same without him dashing around the lab, doing everything he wants with the instruments – even Mike says so."

She was wearing a dressing gown, and he was very pointedly only looking at her face.

She brought him to the door, and when he turned to say goodbye, she surprised by kissing him – not on the cheek, but a real kiss. He responded enthusiastically.

She drew back and smiled. "Call me, will you? I want to know what happens."

"Of course" he replied, grinning, kissed her one more time, drove home, dressed and got into his car, all while feeling the happiest man in the world – though, as he came nearer to 221B, he couldn't help but feel worried again. Sherlock had to talk to them about what happened; they had to get through to him.

He didn't know what he had been expecting. He had probably expected Mrs. Hudson to be her usual loveable self, and John to be worried; he had expected Sherlock to sit on the sofa, completely quiet (the thought was still disconcerting). Maybe he had expected Mycroft to be there, giving advice and looking calm, while being very concerned about his younger brother.

He hadn't expected to hear shouting, he was sure about that, at least.

Still feeling rather happy, he parked his car and walked up the street to 221B. He heard the shouting as soon as he'd put a foot on the doorstep. He tried to hear what the voices were saying, but it was impossible to do so through the door. He could tell that it was John and Mrs. Hudson who were shouting, almost screaming, in fact, and swallowed, feeling scared. What had happened? He'd only heard John shout a few times, and he only knew that Mrs. Hudson was aware that you could shout through Sherlock. So why would they scream? And who where they screaming at?

He rang, but the shouting continued, so he pressed the button until it stopped and Mrs. Hudson opened the door, still with the same strange hostility on her face that had been there the night before. "What did I say about you coming here even more often?" she spat, and Greg was struck speechless for a second. Then, she turned around, leaving the door open, shuffled back inside, and the shouting recommenced.

Greg walked in, and saw something he'd never have thought he'd see.

Mrs. Hudson and John shouting on each other, disdain on both their faces.

And now, he could understand what they were arguing about.

"I am _not_ going to pay the rent for another quarter when I am going to move out at the beginning of January – "

"I have every right to ask for more – you can't just leave me here with the weirdo without a warning!"

Greg's knee suddenly felt weak.

Had John just said that he intended to _move out_ , once and for all?

Had Mrs. Hudson just _used the word "weirdo"_ to describe Sherlock?

He took a deep breath. Something must have happened last night; something big. He had to stop them from screaming at each other any longer, he had to get John in the flat, where they could talk in peace; so he slowly walked towards them and decided to simply put an end to the fight by standing between them.

John stopped shouting as soon as he realized someone was blocking his sight of Mrs. Hudson, and glared at Greg, who had to remind himself not to take a step back.

John's face was red, so they must have been shouting at each other for quite a while; and... the glare which he fixed on Greg was nothing short of vicious. He was angry, and didn't care to let it out on anyone who came into his path. He'd never seen the doctor like this.

"Lestrade!" he snarled. "What is it?"

Greg didn't know what to say. That wasn't the John Watson he knew, but he blamed it on whatever had happened in the night and on the fight he'd just witnessed. Even if hearing him spitting out his surname like that hurt a little. Before they became friends – which had been almost immediately – he'd almost always called him "Inspector", and when he said "Lestrade" it hadn't sounded so indifferent, so wrong.

He swallowed. "John, I was supposed to come over. You remember? We wanted to talk to Sherlock..."

Suddenly, there was a strange look in John's eyes – Greg didn't know how to explain it. He swayed from side to side a bit, too, and Greg grabbed his arm, hearing the door of Mrs. Hudson's flat slam behind him, but not caring. At the moment, he had to make sure John was alright.

John, who shook of his hand as if it was an insect, and Greg flinched. John looked on, apparently completely indifferent to the fact that he'd just hurt his friend. Something serious must have happened.

Greg swallowed. "John – did something happen last night? Did Sherlock come home?"

"Yes, he did. Though he did go out again almost immediately, thank God."

 _Thank God_? And was that annoyance in John's voice when he spoke about Sherlock – not the normal annoyance with more than a trace of fondness, but the annoyance one usually reserved for people like Anderson?

"Why don't we go up?" he suggested. "Then you can tell me everything."

"If we must..." John grumbled, but he turned around and led the way. He didn't have anything against the DI, they just weren't very good friends. True, they talked now and then at crime scenes (not that that would ever happen again, he would certainly not follow Sherlock around like a pet anymore), but other than that...

Wasn't there – didn't they –

Weren't they close? Shouldn't they be close? Was there –

Greg grabbed his arm again, and John realized he was leaning against the wall. He shoved the DI away and opened the door to their flat.

Greg followed him, more concerned than ever, and wondering what had got into John. The doctor he knew would never be happy that Sherlock had left the flat the night before and not returned.

When John let himself fall in his chair without offering Greg a cup of tea, the DI had had enough. He grabbed his phone, sent a text to Sherlock – just a simple _Where are you_? – and walked over to stand before John.

"John, tell me why you're acting like this. Sherlock hasn't been home the whole night, normally, you'd be worried – "

John laughed, or rather snorted, and Greg shuddered. He had never heard his friend laugh like that.

"Why would I be worried about my sociopathic flatmate?"

"Your what?" Greg was baffled. Completely and utterly confused. What was going on? Why – he let himself fall on the sofa and rubbed his face with his hands. "John. Just tell me if you have any idea where he is, please."

"No." Greg nodded. "Good, then. Do you mind if I wait here until he returns?"

John waved a hand, not really caring. "Be my guest".

Greg nodded and settled down to wait, ignored by John who had picked up a book and wondered why the detective should care so much about his crazy flatmate.

Sherlock had run around the town all night, never stopping, not talking to anyone, not looking at anyone, though he couldn't really say why. Finally he decided to return home – if he was lucky, John would either be more polite or out.

Mrs. Hudson opened her door when he walked up the stairs, and he sighed, but she simply said, "Just so you know, you're going to have to pay the whole rent – and a real one too. He's moving out". She closed the door again, and Sherlock didn't understand why he felt uneasy and strange again, and slowly walked up the stairs.

He didn't understand the panic when he opened the door and saw John in his chair and Greg on the sofa, either, he simply sprinted past them and locked the door of his bedroom.

The DI looked up when he saw his consulting detective return and wanted to smile, but found he couldn't when he saw the expression on his face. Something was wrong, more than it had ever been. Then he started to run to his room.

"Sherl – " Greg wanted to grab him as he passed the sofa, but there was this strange dizziness he'd felt the day before again, and he fell back.

He heard the key in the lock and tried to remember why it was a bad thing.

"Good friends, are you?" John asked sarcastically, and Greg shook his head trying to figure out what was wrong about that question –

 _John wouldn't ask such a question._ That was what was wrong. Right. Sherlock had just run past him and locked himself in his room. Sherlock –

He ran to the bedroom door and started pounding on it with his fists. "Sherlock! Sherlock, it's me" of course he'd know that, but he was too concerned to care what he said "please open the door. We need to talk. Sherlock, please – "

He turned around and saw that John was looking annoyed and utterly unconcerned again. "John? Don't you want to know what's wrong?" he asked, scared for his both best friends.

John shrugged. "I suppose he has a reason, though I doubt we normal human beings would understand it".

Greg stared at him like he'd just hit him, then turned around and started pounding on the door again, and John sighed. There went his plans for a quiet morning.

Sherlock sat on the bed, briefing heavily, wondering we he felt relieved that the change hadn't come upon Greg – apparently the door was thick enough to protect him from his influence – but feeling it was somehow important to keep it that way.

So he called out, "Greg, please leave. I'm not going to open the door."

"Then I'll kick it in" Greg answered, and Sherlock started to feel uneasy again, just as John said, "But you are paying for that, Lestrade."

"No, Greg. Please. I need to be alone. I" and he paused, searching for something that would make Greg leave and finally settling on "I'll explain everything, I promise. Later. I'm alright, I swear. Just... leave."

Greg turned around and saw that John had no intention of helping him, as the doctor was just making himself tea in the kitchen. He sighed, defeated. "Good, then. But I'll come back, and you better have an explanation ready."

Sherlock was sure he could be out every time the DI decided to visit. He could climb out the window as soon as he heard his footsteps on the stairs.

"Alright."

"Bye, Sherlock" Greg answered sadly and called a goodbye to John, who only grumbled in response. Almost in a trance, he moved out of the flat and down the stairs, where Mrs. Hudson's door was open and she glared at him suspiciously. He walked out without a word and stood on the street for several minutes, trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. Then he knew what to do. There was only one person in the UK who could help him now.

As he was walking back to his car, he remembered the promise he'd made, and he took out his phone with a heavy heart, knowing that he would make the young woman he cared so much for unhappy.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly was waiting anxiously for Greg's call, she was so worried, in fact, that she'd went to work soon after he'd left, and started to finish some paperwork that had been waiting on her desk for a few days.

She knew, of course, that it couldn't be easy for Sherlock – to get used to his old life, when he'd sent three years hiding – but she also knew, that they – everyone who knew and liked him really – needed the old Sherlock back, the one they'd spent years mourning. She hadn't grieved because she'd known he'd survived; but she'd had to fight the temptation of telling John, telling Greg, shouting it from the rooftops every minute, and it hadn't been easy. And she had supposed, perhaps stupidly, that Sherlock would be the same once he'd returned. But maybe, just maybe, John and Greg could get through to him and everything would be like it was supposed to.

She took a deep breath when her phone rang. Apparently she was going to get her answers sooner than she'd foreseen.

Greg, standing next to his car, and shivering in the cold December morning – or was he shivering because of something else? – didn't know how to tell Molly, so he simply said as she answered, without greeting, "John's moving out and Sherlock has locked himself in his room."

For a few moments, all he could hear was a stunned silence. Then, she asked slowly, "Where are you?"

"I just left. They didn't want me there." There was a bitterness in his voice he couldn't hide.

"Then something must have happened; they wouldn't send you away just like that".

And just like that he felt better. His smile disappeared, however, when she added, "What about Mrs. Hudson?"

"She isn't talking to anyone."

Before she could say another word he said "I'm going to Mycroft. Going to see him in his office, not calling him. He must know what's going on. Or, if he doesn't, I'll explain everything to him and perhaps he'll have an idea."

"That's probably for the best – " Molly hesitated, then she asked, slowly, "do you think John – "

"I think he doesn't want to have anything to do with Sherlock right now" Greg answered, and was surprised how much this thought hurt.

"Please, call me as soon as anything happens" she replied. "I'd come myself, but there was a car accident in the night, and I have to do autopsies of three people today..."

"Don't worry, Molly, I'll try to keep an eye on things. And I'll call you. Bye."

"Bye, Greg, take care" she said, and then hung up. He put his phone in his pocket, looked worriedly back at 221B and got in his car. He drove straight to Mycroft's office – after having been kidnapped by him for the first time, he'd made sure to know where his "minor position in the British Government" had her centre – and decided not to be polite or to wait for several security officers to check his credentials. He simply flashed his ID and walked past them, ignoring their protests.

Anthea sat in the room right before the older Holmes' office, of course, and stood up when he entered. Her protest died on her lips when she saw his face, and he simply said, as a way of explanation and because he knew she'd most likely find out anyway, "John wants to move out."

She nodded, looking shocked – he'd probably have appreciated the normally calm face wearing such an expression if the situation had been different – and simply opened the door when she beckoned him towards him.

Mycroft, of course, knew that something must have happened as well, simply by the way Greg entered his office. So he told him straight away.

The politician, who had stood up when Greg entered, let himself fall on his chair, his face, at least for those who knew him, showing how concerned he was.

"Has John given any reason?"

"Not really, but he called him his "sociopathic flatmate". And shouted at Mrs. Hudson, because she wanted him to pay the rent for another quarter... She's not herself either. And then Sherlock came home – he ignored my text, and normally, he always replies – and he locked himself in his room, and John didn't care, just like he hadn't cared that Sherlock hadn't come home the night before and – and – "

He stopped, breathing heavily, and was aware that Mycroft pressed a hand on his shoulder and guided him to a chair before giving him a glass of water.

"Breathe, Greg. We are going to figure out what happened." It's the first time he's ever called him by his first name, and it tells the DI just how concerned Sherlock's brother is.

"We'll drive to Baker Street. You can tell me everything in detail on the way."

Greg nodded and stood up, thankfully not panicking anymore, and the two made their way out of the building, only stopping when Anthea called after them, "I'll let Scotland Yard know that DI Lestrade won't come to work today, sir", to give her, in Greg's case, a grateful smile, or, in Mycroft's, an appreciative nod.

"Do you think it would be easier to talk to them together or separately?" Mycroft inquired once they sat in one of his black limousines – they had left Greg's car at Mycroft's office building, but the DI was sure that, though he had the keys, it would appear wherever the older Holmes would decide to drop him off later. After everything had been cleared up.

Greg sighed. "Normally, I'd say it would be best to keep them together at all costs, but now..."

Mycroft nodded, his lips a thin line, and continued to stare out the window for a while. Then, he asked, "You told me Mrs. Hudson has been affected as well."

"Yes – even before John. She just slammed the door in our face last night, and she screamed at John when he told her he wanted to leave – not because she was concerned, but because she wanted more rent."

Mycroft nodded and then – he put his hands to his mouth as if he was going to pray, obviously starting to sort through various options, when he saw Greg's face. "Is there something wrong, Inspector?"

Greg swallowed. "Nothing, it's just – that's Sherlock's thinking pose."

Mycroft smirked – something else Greg had, until now, only associated with his brother – and asked, "Where do you think he got it from?" The he grew serious and added, "Tell me – When you were at Baker Street last night, did you feel – strange? Dizzy, maybe? Unlike yourself?"

Greg thought about it, then remembered. "When Sherlock ran past me and into his room – there was something – I felt dizzy, and disoriented."

"Maybe this – change has something to do with the flat, then. Maybe Sherlock – "

"He wouldn't do an experiment like that on his friends – and John said he hadn't really done anything for a while – "

"Still – "

"No, Mycroft. No "still", no "but" and definitely no "however". Stop it. Just ask yourself if Sherlock would do something like this – introduce a poison, or a gas or whatever in the flat, where his friends would be subjected to it. I'm not talking about him, mind you. He'd probably subject himself to it without a second thought. But his friends – do you really think he would do something like this? Aside from the fact that I felt dizzy at Bart's, too, and I hadn't been to the flat in a few days."

Mycroft nodded, not saying anything, but apparently accepting Greg's objections, and Greg felt relieved.

They didn't talk anymore until they left the car outside 221B, and Mycroft said "Mrs. Hudson is out".

They walked up the stairs and Greg used his key, although he was rather sure Mycroft had one too – just not one given to him willingly.

The living room was empty, and he looked at Mycroft. "Sherlock is where you left him, John in his bedroom" the older Holmes said immediately, and Greg nodded.

"I'll try to talk to my brother – why don't you go up to John?"

Greg complied, knowing that any resistance would be useless. And maybe his brother could reach out to Sherlock.

So he walked up the stairs to John's bedroom and knocked. The grumbled reply "Piss Off, Sherlock" told him that nothing had changed. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

John was sitting on his bed, reading a book, but the way he sat... The John Greg knew was relaxed when he was at home, even if Sherlock had just shot the wall, even if an experiment had gone home. He was happy to be home. This John – his posture was stiff, and he shot Greg a glare.

"What do you want, Lestrade?"

"I asked Mycroft to come over. He's talking to Sherlock now." At least the DI hoped so. "I wanted to see how you were doing."

"Aside from the fact that the landlady wants to charge me for months I'm not going to spend here, my sociopathic flatmate who has locked himself in his room, and the brother of said sociopathic flatmate coming over when he could be busy starting the next war?"

"John" Greg asked, slowly, deciding not to answer the doctor's question, "why do you want to move out? Please, just tell me."

John looked at the DI, wondering why he felt bad about the concerned look on Lestrade's face. Surely, there was something – just outside his grasp – he could –

He shrugged. "I think the question should be why I haven't moved out yet."

"But, John – I know it hasn't been easy lately, I know Sherlock has changed, but – you were so happy when he returned. Happier than I'd ever seen you, in fact."

In the next moment, he felt a shiver down his spine when John looked at him with uncomprehending eyes and asked, "What do you mean, "returned"?"

"From – from the dead, John" Greg stammered, his heart hammering in his chest. "After he'd jumped off St Bart's – you remember? Moriarty forced him to – "

"Who is Moriarty?"

Greg had to lean against the wall and take deep breaths.

John was shaking his head, looking confused, passing a hand across his forehead. "What is it that is going away again?" he muttered to himself. "What is it that is going away again?"

Greg shook himself and decided to explain. "John, please, just listen to me. Your first case, right after you and Sherlock met – "

"I can't remember it, Greg, I can't remember it" John muttered, suddenly realizing what was troubling it, what was missing. He looked at Greg, panicked, his eyes pleading. "I can't remember when and why Sherlock and I met. Help me. Help me, please."

Greg sat heavily down on the bed next to John and started talking.

Mycroft was at Sherlock's door as soon as the DI had left the living room. He knocked. "Sherlock, I have been informed that you and John had... a fight, and that you are upset. Please open the door."

"We didn't have a fight, and I'm not upset. Go away, Mycroft."

"Greg is upstairs, talking to John. I'm sure we could find a solution..."

Sherlock burrowed his head in his hands and groaned. He had spent the last hour pacing up and down. Of course, he'd heard Greg and Mycroft enter the flat, but hadn't had the energy to climb out the window. He'd have to, though, if Mycroft persisted.

_Mycroft..._

There was something about the fact that his brother was here, at this time of the day, instead of at the office; there was something in Greg coming to get him and trying to talk to John; something – they were trying to – they were concerned –

The knowledge how much his friends cared for him didn't restore the memories of sorrow, trouble or wrong he had cast aside; but it gave him a sense of what he'd lost. And the terror of inflicting it on more people. So he did what he had to, when he heard Mycroft pacing up and down – his brother's umbrella made enough noise on the floor to ensure the older Holmes wouldn't hear the window open.

Half an hour later, Mycroft was still pacing up and down, occasionally talking to Sherlock, who had ceased to respond – which didn't surprise him, given the circumstances. He hated to admit it, but he had trouble thinking clearly. Something had happened, and he didn't know what; for once, he was as much at loss as any other person concerned, and that was very disquieting.

When DI – Greg came back, his face was pale and he obviously tried very hard to stay calm.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked, a slight quiver in his voice.

"He can't remember how he met Sherlock. He can't remember Moriarty. Mycroft – he can't even remember being shot. Or his psychosomatic limp. Or the three years Sherlock was gone. Or his return."

"What?"

Greg rubbed a hand over his face. "I told him. I just left him, trying to believe me, but I don't think he can."

Mycroft swallowed and wanted to say something, but then he realized how utterly quiet the flat was – it was never this quiet when Sherlock was home, not even when he was sleeping.

He turned around and forced the door open in seconds. Greg, who'd realized what Mycroft thought, was right behind him as he all but ran into the room.

The window was open.

Sherlock was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft turned around and looked at Greg. "I suppose" he said, trying to keep his voice calm, "that John is not going to be able to help us find Sherlock?"

Greg nodded. Mycroft bit his lip, and Greg had never seen the other Holmes so worried. "No. He can't remember most of the things that made his and Sherlock's relationship so – special in the first place. And before you ask: I have no idea where he's going to be either."

Mycroft sat down on the sofa. Greg could only imagine what he had gone through – Sherlock was gone, John had lost his mind, or his memories, which was in a way one and the same (as well as Mrs. Hudson, probably) and he – as a Holmes – had no idea what was going on. So he tried to rein his own panic – as far as he could, at least – and was reasonable.

"Mycroft, we need to find him. Go to your office. Make sure your agents cover every part of London."

Mycroft wanted to protest, but Greg interrupted him before he'd got out one sentence. "Please, Mycroft. We both know you're not used to legwork – and there's no one who knows this city half as well as Sherlock."

Mycroft looked at him and then started pacing up and down, while Greg, who was more than aware of the Holmes' mannerisms when thinking about something, looked on. Finally, Mycroft nodded.

"Very well, Greg. I assume you're going to stay here?"

Greg hesitated, and Mycroft understood why. He was a good friend, both to Sherlock and to John, and he wanted to run after his little brother and look after the doctor at the same time. Sentiment. It surprised him again and again.

"To look after John and Mrs. Hudson, I mean" he clarified. "When Sherlock returns to normal" he forced himself not to say "if" "he'll never forgive us if we leave them alone now."

He knew that he had convinced Greg before the DI responded, and felt a little guilty for it. He was used to manipulate people, but he didn't like to do so with Sherlock's friends.

"I guess you're right" Greg finally replied, and Mycroft sighed, relieved, before asking, "But, should my brother return – I trust you'll inform me of any new developments?"

"Of course" the DI responded, and Mycroft smiled before striding out of the room. Before he even got into the limousine, he called Anthea. She had apparently waited for his call – just like she always did – and told him she had several agents on stand-by. He thanked her and gave instructions, then got in the car.

On the way to his office, he tried to think of an explanation. But Greg had been right – there was no way Sherlock would do an experiment that would make John forget why he and Sherlock were as close as they always had been, ever since they met. John meant a lot to his brother – Mycroft ignored the pang of jealousy he felt, because caring was a disadvantage – and he'd never risk their friendship.

What had got into his brother? What had got into his friends?

Greg sat down on the sofa, not sure what to do. Knowing the doctor, John would need time, time to process everything, time to get to terms with the fact that he couldn't remember a large part of his life. But, still – he wanted John to be the loyal friend he remembered, he needed John to run downstairs and inquire after Sherlock with the usual worried look in his eyes.

Sighing and resigning himself to the fact that this wasn't likely to happen anytime soon, Greg stood up and did what John – Sherlock's and his John – would do in a similar situation: he made tea.

John was still sitting on his bed, his head reeling from all he'd heard. He couldn't remember being shot, or being invalided home – and, more importantly, until Lestrade – Greg had told him, he hadn't even asked how he came to be where he was. Sure, he had some vague recollections about joining the military, but that was it. Somehow, he had the vague feeling that Sherlock was supposed to mean much more to him, that he should be happy the detective was in his life... But he couldn't remember. He knew what Lestrade – what Greg had told him, but he couldn't recall ever experiencing it. He felt empty. He only wished, with all his might, that his memories would come back.

Sherlock was running through London again – it seemed that it was all he'd been doing, since the so-called gift had been bestowed on him. But, when not so shortly before, every corner would have awakened some recollection, now there was nothing.

He stopped once – in the shadows, since he didn't want anyone to observe him long enough to receive "the gift" – opposite an old violin player, realizing that not so long ago, he would have recalled times spent with only his violin for company, when it had soothed him, calmed the whirlwind that was his mind, helped him get to terms with the world, but knowing that nothing could bring back what he'd thrown away, without thinking of the consequences.

It had been around midday when he'd left the flat – and he didn't think he could return. Greg and Mycroft were sure to come back. Maybe, in the course of time, Molly would drop by. Mike might too.

Mycroft's agents would be looking for him, but he knew how to hide in plain sight. It had been useful to him when he –

When he what?

Because he had by this time the knowledge something was missing, he was aware that he should remember something, but couldn't. But that wasn't even the worst.

No, the worst thing about the mess he had made was how unbelievably stupid he'd been. He should have known that memories of sorrow and wrong and trouble are linked to other memories and feelings; he should have known that he'd not only loose these feelings, but the ones that sprang from it, too.

His connection with John was gone. He couldn't find another expression for it. They had been friends, they must have been friends, of that he was sure; why else would John live with him for – a longer period of time and accompany him to crime scenes? Why would he try and force him to eat and sleep?

Why would he – something – Sherlock had been – and John –

He suddenly realized that he'd been standing on a corner for a few minutes, and that an older man who'd just passed him seemed to experience the same dizziness that he'd witnessed Greg fight off, so he started moving again.

And then another thought occurred to him.

He was forever banned from all human companionship. He couldn't be with another human being for more than a few moments before the change took place.

And while he wasn't the most sociable man who had ever lived – at least he didn't think so – never to be able to stand still, never to be able to simply talk eye to eye with another human being again...

He had run around for a few hours by this point, his thoughts endlessly repeating themselves, and it was growing dark. People were running around happily, looking at the Christmas decorations in the shop windows, buying presents, or going to spend some time with their families.

He was, for the first time in his life, he supposed (even though there was this feeling of strangeness again), completely alone.

He looked up and realized that he'd once again reached St. Bart's. He didn't know why, but he walked in and, making sure that no one would see him, took the stairs to the roof.

John was still sitting on the bed, trying to make sense of all he'd heard, when he felt dizzy again. The dizziness was accompanied with the feeling that he should be somewhere, that it was important, that –

Everything came rushing back. The army, being shot, Sherlock –

_Sherlock._

Greg had, against his will, started to doze off on the sofa when he heard John's door open. Maybe the doctor had decided whether to believe him or not – either, knowing him, he'd want more information, or he'd kick Greg out of the flat, but opening his door was a start – Greg had knocked several times in the last four hours, but the ex-soldier had locked his door, and the only answer he'd get was a mumbled "leave me alone" any time. So he guessed he could call that progress.

All speculation vanished from his mind when he saw John stumble into the living room, his face ashen.

"John? John! Are you alright? John!"

He helped the doctor to sit down and fetched him a glass of water, which he, apparently unable to speak, gladly accepted.

He drank it in one large gulp, and the DI was relieved when the colour returned to his face and he sat up, showing that he had control of his leg muscles again; then he looked into John's eyes and saw something there that shouldn't have made him happy, but did.

The doctor was worried.

Greg was proven correct when John grabbed his wrist. "Greg! Where's Sherlock?"

Still, he was a bit taken aback by the urgency in his manner. "He was in his room, but when Mycroft forced the door open, the window was open and he was gone."

"Mycroft didn't realize? He must be getting slow." John smiled for a moment – maybe it was a joke between him and Sherlock – then grew serious again, and as close to hectic as Greg had ever seen him. "Any news?"

There was no need to mention that Mycroft was looking for his brother; both of them knew perfectly well what the older Holmes would do in a situation like this.

Greg shook his head. "No. He's texted me every hour – as well as Anthea – but there's no trace of him. Molly called a couple of times too. She's worried."

John struggled to his fight, but thankfully didn't sway from side to side anymore. "I need to find him."

"John". Greg put a hand on his arm. "You can't just run around, hoping to stumble over him. It's a big city, and you're not yourself." He bit his lip. Hopefully John hadn't forgotten their conversation this morning already.

"Greg – " John shook his head. "You don't understand. I – "

"No, John, you don't understand. I can't let you – "

"I remember, Greg! I remember everything! I remember being shot, I remember how alone I was, I remember meeting Sherlock, I remember Moriarty, I remember – " John's voice quivered, and he had to swallow. "I remember the three years without him. I don't know what happened, I don't know what made me forget, but I remember now."

Greg would have suspected that the doctor didn't really remember – he was very anxious to go out and search for Sherlock, after all – but one look in his face disproved his suspicion. When John talked about these three years, there was genuine pain in his eyes, and Greg couldn't help but grin.

"Good to have you back."

"Good to be back". John shook his hand off. "I'm sorry, Greg, but I have to go. I don't know why, but I have the feeling I have to find him, and alone."

"But, John – "

"Please, Greg" John answered, already pulling on his jacket, "trust me. I can feel it. I just can't explain it. Stay here, take care of Mrs. Hudson. I'll call when I've found him. Please."

There was no arguing with him, and maybe John could find Sherlock. He knew the detective better than anyone else, after all. Greg sighed. "Very well. But you will keep in touch."

"I promise". Then, John was gone, his feet pounding on the stairs, the street door opened, and just like that, a small part of their world had realigned itself.

Then Greg heard Mrs. Hudson's door open. "John?" she sounded worried, and Greg made his way downstairs, hoping that she'd gone back to normal – or as normal as you could be in 221B, anyway – too.

He was sure she had when she looked at him with tearful eyes. "Oh, DI Lestr – "

"Greg" he corrected her.

"Greg, I've been so awful to the boys, and John just stormed out, and I don't know where Sherlock is, and – I don't know what came over me, I would never – "

"Mrs. Hudson, it's going to be alright" Greg tried to soothe her. "John and Sherlock weren't themselves either. They'll understand. We don't know where Sherlock is, but John has gone out looking for him."

She suddenly seemed to remember something and bit her lip. "Is John really going to – "

"No, no, Mrs. Hudson, of course he won't move out."

She beamed at him, and he smiled back. "Don't stand there, come in, Greg. I'll put on the kettle – and I have some biscuits left, I think".

He settled down to wait for news in her kitchen, more than ready to gain a few extra pounds if it meant making Sherlock's landlady happy.

Sherlock looked over the rooftops of London, still not entirely sure how he'd ended up on the roof of St Bart's.

He stopped thinking about it, though, when he felt a familiar presence behind him.

He turned around. The ghost stood behind him.

"Coming back to gloat?"

"I told you" the spectre replied, "I come when called."

"Then take your gift back" Sherlock snarled, but the ghost just looked at him with his own piercing stare. "Or" he added "just take it from those who had no choice. Let John and Mrs. Hudson and the young mother be themselves again. Leave me to what I have become, cast away from all human sympathy, but don't make them pay for my mistake".

The ghost stayed silent.

"I see it now. I see that all our memories, good or bad, shape us into what we are. I wasn't happy when you came, of that I'm sure. But it's better than leading a half-life. If you can't save me, save them".

This time, the spectre answered. "You died for them once. Sometimes history repeats itself."

Then, it was gone, and, though Sherlock had no recollection of ever having died for anyone, he realized what the ghost had meant. At least he was already on a roof. And there was nothing he could do about his life.

But he could save those of his friends.

He slowly walked towards the edge.


	7. Chapter 7

John ran, like he'd never run before, without knowing why. He was sure that Sherlock needed him, and that he had to find him soon – but he couldn't say why.

Later, he would realize that he hadn't known where to find Sherlock, that he had just run and run until he found himself, out of breath, in front of St Bart's. Being drawn by the same force that had led his steps there, he went in and climbed up to the roof.

It was dark. Of course it was. It was the middle of December, and from the street, he hadn't been able to see anything.

But now...

Now he saw Sherlock standing on the roof top, just like Moriarty must have seen him, before he shot himself. And he realized that Sherlock was going to jump, and suddenly, he couldn't think anymore. It was just like all those years ago, but this time, he was watching it not from the ground, but from the very first rank, and he rushed forwards, crying out his friend's name.

Sherlock was standing on the rooftop, ready to jump if it meant saving his friends – even if he didn't know why they were his friends, even if he didn't know why it seemed so familiar – and hesitated.

He hesitated, just for a moment, because there was this strangeness again; the strangeness that told him he should be feeling something at this very moment, something he'd felt before. The strangeness that told him that John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, even Mycroft meant more to him than he remembered.

He hesitated for one moment – just one moment – to look over London, draw in its sweet air one more time, but then –

"Sherlock!" A desperate cry. Again, he felt like he should recognize it, but couldn't. He turned around.

John was rushing towards him, stopping when he realized that Sherlock was looking at him. Even though there wasn't much distance between them, Sherlock felt like it was a huge gulf. Because John – John was obviously worried about him. The way he'd shouted his name, his panting... he'd ran. He'd ran to find Sherlock in time, though, of course, he couldn't. Because the ghost had obviously fulfilled his part of the bargain, and now –

Sherlock had to do what the ghost had told him to do.

But he couldn't, not in front of John. There was something – anything – keeping him – but what?

He passed a hand across his forehead.

"Sherlock". John slowly took a step towards him. "Please, step away from the edge. I know I haven't been the best friend you could have lately – I know I ignored you, and I was mean, I don't know why, but, please, Sherlock – "

"John" Sherlock interrupted him. "I know exactly why you've been acting like you don't care about me. And, trust me, the only solution is – "

"No." It was said so firmly that Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Why would John think that –

"Not again, Sherlock. Please, not again."

_Not again?_

Sherlock remembered what the ghost had said – "You died for your friends once" – and tried to make sense of all this. Had he jumped off this roof once before, had he died once before? But how? This was –

John took another step towards him, apparently realizing what was going on.

"Don't you remember? I didn't. For – for a whole night, I didn't remember – I couldn't remember what you'd given me, I couldn't remember how alone I was before I met you. Sherlock, step down, and I will tell you about everything, I promise. Just..."

"John, you don't understand. I have to jump, so you can remember. I am lost, but – "

Sherlock trailed off when he saw John walk to his right and Sherlock's left, instead of towards Sherlock; he only realized what the doctor was going to do when he stepped on the ledge too, a few metres next to him.

"If you jump, I'm going to jump too."

"John..." He didn't know what he was going to say – Don't be stupid, let it be, leave me alone so I can kill myself? He only knew that John was just ruining his plan to atone for what he'd done to his friends, and –

But, suddenly, he felt dizzy.

" _Sherlock!"_

He might have lost consciousness for a few seconds; but the next thing he knew, he was lying on the roof of St Bart's, John apparently having caught him, or his arm, in time to pull him away from the ledge, and he was looking into the doctor's eyes, and everything came rushing back.

_His childhood, his parents neglecting him, the servants afraid of him, but Mycroft there, supporting him, making sure he always had a small microscope, and enough(harmless) substances to experiment with._

_His cocaine addiction, meeting Mrs. Hudson and Greg, Mycroft forcing him to detox in his house._

_Him alone, still alone, until, one day, Mike Stamford introduced him to John Watson, and the whole world changed._

_Moriarty and his games. Moriarty and his final stand._

_Three years in which he'd killed, and been lonely, and wished, desperately wished, to be where he belonged, to be with his friends again..._

Still dizzy, and trying to make sense of all that had happened in the last few days, he croaked out, "John – I remember".

John grinned, and he couldn't help but smile back.

"I'd hoped you would. Now, I know, standing up after this – experience isn't easy, but, please, try. It's cold, and it's time that you got back into the warm."

Sherlock tried, and, while he was still slightly dizzy and a bit disoriented, he managed to stand up and get out of St Bart's with John's help.

After getting a cab (for once, John called one), Sherlock said "I know what happened."

John looked at him. "You mean you know that you wanted – "

"No" Sherlock interrupted him. "I mean I know why we behaved the way we did, and, don't worry, it was no experiment".

"Glad to hear that" John responded, but he smirked, and Sherlock smiled.

"Is – is Greg still at 221B?" he inquired.

"I suppose so. He was going to look after – " John looked guilty. "I should have called him."

"Text him. Tell him we're on our way. I'm sure Mycroft will intercept the text and realize I'm safe" Sherlock drawled.

John shook his head, but did as he was told.

They didn't talk until they reached 221B, but Sherlock took John's hand and squeezed it, only for a moment, but it was enough. They were friends again, and nothing else mattered.

When they arrived at 221B, the door opened before they'd even paid the cab driver. Mrs. Hudson was awaiting them, Greg standing in the corridor behind her.

"Boys! I'm so sorry, I don't know why i said the things I did, I – John, you are not going to move out?"

Sherlock bit his lip; the thought that John would still want to move out hadn't even occurred to him. He looked at his flatmate as he slowly answered, "No, of course not, Mrs. Hudson." He looked at Sherlock, fondness in his eyes. "Why would I?"

"Oh, thank you" Mrs. Hudson breathed, and Sherlock could only agree with her. She hugged John, then Sherlock and finally Greg, who seemed surprised but still hugged her back, too, and made them promise that "they'd call, whatever it was they wanted."

"So, are you going to tell us what happened?" John inquired, as the three friends walked up the stairs to John's and Sherlock's flat.

Sherlock took a deep breath. His story was – well, frankly it was unbelievable. But they deserved to know.

So he began to talk.

They listened.

They listened for the better part of two hours, while slowly, the shops closed and people hurried home.

Then John bit his lip, and Sherlock knew what he was going to say.

"I am aware that it sounds impossible. But – just believe me. Please."

John simply shook his head, while Greg looked mildly amused. "I believe you, Sherlock, as always, though I don't know why I should" their DI laughed. His doctor reciprocated his gesture from the cab and squeezed his hand. Sherlock smiled.

John looked at them both. "I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Takeaway?"

They agreed – Sherlock, if he remembered correctly, hadn't eaten since the bestowal of the gift – and they watched crap telly while they ate, Sherlock more relaxed than he'd been since he returned.

Greg said goodbye around ten pm – obviously going to spend the night at Molly's flat, though Sherlock said nothing about it – and John put him to bed soon afterwards, because he could barely keep his eyes open. Though only half-conscious, he smiled when he heard his doctor say "Goodnight, Sherlock".

He went to the Diogenes Club the next afternoon, having told John and Mrs. Hudson where he was going – he didn't want to scare them – to talk to Mycroft, who was more than surprised to see him.

"Mycroft, I need to tell you something, and please, don't interrupt me..."

And Sherlock told him the whole story while his brother, to his credit, didn't interrupt him once.

Then, he slowly asked, "Sherlock, you do know that what you are telling me is impossible?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I do, Mycroft. Just... take it for what it's worth. Say I've dreamed it, say I've seen it in the fire during one of me meditations, say the ghost was only the representation of my gloomy thoughts – but leave it at that."

Mycroft looked like he wanted to say something, but nodded instead.

Sherlock looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "And just so you know – in the future, I only expect interesting cases from you, or I won't even let you in the door."

His brother actually laughed, and Sherlock smirked. He stood up.

"Goodbye, Mycroft".

"Goodbye, Sherlock" his brother answered, but just as Sherlock had reached the door, he had an idea.

He turned around. "Just so you know, we are going to have a Christmas party this year- and you are going to be there. If necessary, pass a law, but you are going to be there."

Without waiting for his brother's answer, he turned around again and left, not knowing that Mycroft Holmes, who had scared the Prime minister on several occasions, actually beamed at his words.

He talked to Mrs. Hudson, who immediately started to plan what to get for their party, as soon as he returned, and had got as far as to say "We are going to have a Christmas party..." to John, when his phone rang.

"Greg" he answered. "Yes, of course I'll come – We'll come. How can we refuse?"

He hung up. "It's Greg – there's been a triple murder in a house not far from Oxford Street, doors locked, no signs of a burglary, no witnesses – it really is Christmas!"

John smiled fondly at him. "Alright then, let's go."

"You're not going to tell me I shouldn't be so happy about this case?"

John simply laughed. "Why should I? I've given up on teaching you the importance of any social conventions whatsoever."

But he still smiled, even as Sherlock dragged him into the cold and in a cab.

They spent the cab ride looking out the windows in a comfortable silence, Sherlock watching a happy family a recognized immediately taking a walk, the young mother's face glowing happily as her husband played with their children.

Snow was falling.

Christmas was coming.


End file.
